I’ve spent the last two weekends, plus weekdays whenever I could find the time, editing for PIRATE RADIO. As a result, this blog has been neglected for a while.

This time’s theme is 1963 &…

On the evening of the third consecutive day, last night, I found myself in the midst of a seventh bounce, unexpectedly…

It brought back memories of facing a sheer cliff during the Comme des Garçons Paris Collection music selection work. It was a nightmare where I couldn't escape the feeling of having bought so many tracks that my fee, in the hundreds of thousands, was blown away, yet still not finding the right music. Just when I thought it was over, I’d fixate on the details, and once those were cleared, the whole thing would feel mediocre – an endless labyrinth.

And Kawakubo-san’s selections are always for groundbreaking fashion shows, so I couldn’t use the same approach.
I’ve listened to everything available, yet still…
But no matter how many meaningless excuses I make to myself, the reality before me doesn’t change.
My twenty years of music selection for Kawakubo-san’s collections also became increasingly abstract collages towards the very end. While I, the one playing, was intensely engaged, wrestling with something unseen, winning and losing battles, it wasn’t always as interesting as I myself might have thought. A wall of self-pity would constantly appear, forcing me to confront the vagueness and inadequacy of my own sensibilities. Caught in such a spell, the question would eventually arise: Am I ready for Kawakubo-san’s work? In other words, is my mind clear enough to share her lofty aspirations? Am I worthy of being in the same space as her?

I’ve seen people who practice Zen say that if you clear your mind, a terrifying demon attacks, but overcoming it reveals light.
Drawing from my own experience, if you fear a bad trip, you’ll never escape the cycle of infinite hell. But if you resolve to face the fear head-on, to see just how terrifying it is, rather than cowering, the nightmare vanishes as if by magic.

Instead of abandoning discussion for fear of confronting unpleasantness,
won't the truth that emerges from revealing one's own ugliness and speaking honestly be truly pure?

Hmm? What was I just muttering about…

After all, it’s not easy to encounter music that captivates my senses, which have become dulled by listening to so many tracks. As they say, delicious food is always delicious.
Simply arranging masterpieces yields nothing.

Perhaps the sense of dissonance I feel before Protols might be one of the factors nurturing modern madness. I feel like spouting such nonsense. In other words, like a sketch drawn by someone without the skill, the ideas that come to mind don't necessarily take shape as intended; if one part collapses, everything reverts to the beginning… I’ve grown quite accustomed to sounds being etched into peculiar waveforms, but I’ve recently realized that the difference between human thought and computers might even be eroding human sensibility itself. The price of convenience is like selling your soul to the devil. Of course, there’s no turning back now.
Yes, 1963 is not an end, but a beginning.

Now, let’s put aside these sleepless, clouded thoughts.

The moment the sound begins to play,
something unseen compels me.

I will trust in that and begin the final touches.

I’ll write about what I wanted to say another day.



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